Shades of Grey A
by I'llbeyourPatronus
Summary: Sexuality is not black and white, and neither is asexuality. Sherlock muses on the shades of grey between and John gets entirely the wrong idea.


John stares intently at his laptop screen, studiously ignoring the sound of his flatmate's pacing footsteps and intermittent sighs of frustration. Serlock can sort out his little dilemma on his own; John knows that every pointed little whimper is just designed to try to get a reaction out of him, so he gives his friend nothing, hiding his face a bit more behind the screen every time Sherlock huffs out a sad little breath. If he needs to talk then he can man up and say what is on his mind instead of waiting for John to give—

"I believe it is time that I re-evaluate my sexual orientation."

"Hmm, uh huh, right... Wait, what?" John looks up sharply from his computer to stare across the room to his flatmate, open-mouthed. "Re-evaluate? Whatever for?"

Sherlock flops down on the sofa with a sigh and an exaggerated eye-roll. The move does nothing except make it seem entirely like him, yet beneath him at the same time. "Because, _John,_ it has come to my attention that there have been a few recent incidents that prove my earlier assumption false."

_Right, like that couldn't have been more vague. _"What incidents Sherlock?" He pauses, and when it seems like Sherlock isn't going to say anything he continues, "...And what was your 'orientation' anyway? Before the, er, _incidents_." He leaves off the unspoken 'if you don't mind me asking' but they can both feel it, fluttering in the air between them, almost tangible in its politeness. John trying to protect the feelings of a man that has none, and he can almost feel the hidden sneer.

"I have always identified as asexual."

John doesn't miss Sherlock pointedly ignoring the first half of his question and he narrows his eyes at his friend. "And you have had reason to doubt this?"

"Obviously" Sherlock drawls, turning his gaze lazily to the ceiling. He's actually being quite patient this morning, it usually only takes one 'idiotic' question or 'obvious' statement for the detective to lose his temper. He must actually want to talk this out if he's allowing John time to be dense. (Not that he is in any way thick, mind)

"Right. Obvious." And then it hits him, with the full force of a freight train with blown breaks, and it leaves him feeling slightly ill. "Oh. Does this, um, have anything to do with...you know..." he lets his voice trail off while Sherlock stares daggers at their ceiling.

Another patented why-must-I-put-up-with-this-idiocy-sigh. "No John, I do not _know. _Regardless of your fanciful beliefs I cannot actually read minds."

It was now John's turn to roll his eyes, (he was much better at it) so much for this being painless. "I _mean, _has this to do with Irene Adler?"

Sherlock's brow furrows in a rare sign of confusion. "What does this have to do with her?"

If innocent were to ever be a word applied to Sherlock Holmes... John shook his head. "...Because you were attracted to her? Isn't she what this is all about?"

Sherlock's upper body jolts slightly with the force of his snort. "Once again John, you see but you do not observe. Attraction is too strong a word for what I... _felt _-if you could even call it that- for The Woman. If it was anything, it was an appreciation for her temporary cleverness. She was a puzzle, but in the end, she too was unraveled."

John really shouldn't feel so relieved at that, but by god he _is, _and an outrageously goofy grin threatens to overtake his face. There's this mini-John inside of him doing a little dance of victory and shouting _'It's not her! It's not her!' _with his hands in the air, but there's an even bigger mini-John that sounds a tad bit like Sherlock and just has to go and be logical and say that that doesn't mean that it's _him._

He shuts up the matryoshka inside him and schools his face into something a little less victorious, and a little more friendly. "Alright. Good. Great. So what now? Are you straight? Gay?" And if that last suggestion is just a little too hopeful, no one acknowledges it.

"Neither. I have only ever experienced sexual attraction to one person. There are not enough subjects for an actual conclusion of one or the other to be drawn. It is-"

"Yeah, yeah, a mistake to theorize without all the data. I know. But Sherlock, really? Are you even sure that you are attracted to this... person?"

"I have all the symptoms. When in physical proximity with them I have shown an elevated heart rate, a dilation of the pupils, contraction of the arrector pili, and a less scientific but still ever present, 'fluttering of the stomach.' I have also experienced a disturbing number of worrisome dreams and cumbersome erections. That's not even to mention the unwarranted feelings and desires-" The detective's rant is cut off by a slightly flustered ex-army doctor.

"Right. I _get it, _Sherlock. You've got it bad. So where does that leave you? Specifically-sexual?" _Johnsexual? _A little voice offers up hopefully.

"You are aware of the Kinsey scale, yes?" Sherlock raises one skillful eyebrow in question.

John gives a small chuckle. What heterosexual going through an identity crisis hasn't? "Yeah, I am. What does that have to do with this? The last I checked asexual-with-an-exception didn't fall along that scale."

"Obviously-"

"Don't be so predictable Sherlock, I knew you were going to say that." John shoots back before the detective has time to finish his sentence, a smug grin on his lips.

"_Predictable?_" He spits the word out like a curse, his face full of disgust. "I am never _predictable._"

John has to try to contain his giggles, Sherlock has never looked so... offended. It's as if it were the end of the world because someone insinuated that he may have become repetitive. _I suppose it is, the man despises dull, boring, and predictability in everything else, in himself... _John shudders mentally at the thought. "Of course you aren't. I've no idea what I was thinking."

The glare Sherlock gives him is nothing more than terrifying, in a you-bet-your-bloody-arse-you-were-wrong sort of way, yet... somehow more threatening. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and sighs. "Alright, I'm sorry. You are anything but predictable, you are the definition of unpredictability, a swirling mass of spontaneity, you captivate me. Happy?"

Despite the sarcastic tone, Sherlock preens a bit under the praise and John feels a surge of affection for his nutter of a flatmate.

"Very." He answers honestly. "Now back to my point," this glare is more pointed, in a interrupt-me-and-die sort of way. "Similar to the Kinsey scale is the 'Grey-A' or the grey area of asexuality."

"Because not everything is so black and white." John interjects.

"Exactly." Sherlock says with an eyeroll that speaks of unnecessary interruptions. It's not his fault that he hadn't known John had been quoting back the same words his sister had told him when he came to her months ago with the problem of his attraction to his very male flatmate. (His first and only of the same-sex) "It is used to describe a broad area of limited sexual attraction, from extremely rare and inhibited to occurring regularly enough to be easily recognized without the drive to act upon it."

"And you fall in this area?"

"Possibly. But I find it much more probable that I am 'demisexual'"

"Right... And that is?"

This time it was a you-cannot-be-this-ignorant look, and John responded with a look of his own, along with a gesture that plainly said _get on with it already._

"A demisexual is defined as a person that does not experience sexual attraction unless a strong emotional connection is first formed." Sherlock says the words slowly, allowing time for them to set in. John doesn't need it however, because each word spoken is like an ice-cold stab to the heart.

"Ah, so you and this person have a... strong connection." John's eyes are positively glowing with jealousy, and he feels fit to burst.

"Yes."

"Then I'm very happy for the both of you." John grits out between clenched teeth. _And not sulking. Definitely not sulking._ He turns away in frustration and sod it if he's pouting like a child. He really couldn't give a care because this _hurts._

He feels sick. Just thinking of Sherlock starting a relationship with this "strong emotional connection" of his and parading his girlfriend or - please no - boyfriend around 221b like it was the best thing in the world... He wouldn't be able to stand it. Half of the reason that his feelings for his friend hadn't already sent him into a heart-crushing spiral of despair was because Sherlock didn't date. He didn't chase girls or guys down at the pub every Friday night and he didn't flaunt his conquests the next morning. His asexuality had somehow made John's unrequited love for him—because this pain was not the pain of the mildly interested—livable.

There's the sound of a mug hitting the floor and he looks up to see Sherlock invading his personal space, having stepped over the coffee table, dressing gown flowing out like the cape of some Marvel superhero. If superheroes had little to no value for human life or emotions.

The detective reaches out and nimbly extricates the laptop from John's tense fingers, setting it aside beside the chair and kneeling between the doctor's thighs. John stares at his discarded computer sullenly, ignoring the consulting detective at his feet.

"John." No answer. "John..." Nothing. "John. Look at me." An elegant hand grasps the sides of John's face, turning him to look Sherlock in the eye, fingers stroking his jaw gently.

"What?" He asks, a mixture of irritation and depression evident in that single syllable.

"Did you hear what I just said?" Sherlock prompts.

"You told me you were demisexual."

"Yes. So why are you so upset?"

John closes his eyes and sighs. When he opens them again he looks right into the stunning grey-blue orbs just inches away from his face, into eyes so passionate and bright, and he thinks of all the nights he has spent thinking of this man, longing for this man, hiding his true feelings for the detective, and his mouth turns up into a sad smile. "It's complicated Sherlock."

Sherlock releases his face in favor of taking John's hands in his own, and his small smile is equal parts amazed, content, and terrified. The eyebrow is back, and raised sardonically. "I'm sure I could manage." A nervous giggle escapes John's mouth and they both seem a little startled by its sudden presence, John's eyes a little wide at the slightly hysterical tone of it.

John turns away shyly, "please don't make me say it Sherlock."

"You are quite right. At this point, that seems entirely unnecessary." John cringes, and Sherlock's thumb strokes soothing patterns over his hand. "However, I feel the need to redefine demisexuality, because you seem to still not understand."

John groans and his head falls back to hit the headrest of his chair. "Again Sherlock? I could hardly get through the first one!"

Sherlock's look is pointed but gentle. "Yes, _again._ As I said, a demisexual does not experience sexual attraction without a strong emotional connection. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes." John feels like he has sighed much too often for one conversation, but then again he's never been in one as short yet as emotionally taxing as this, so he sighs again.

"Assuming that I am, in fact, demisexual, one could infer that I am very close to the person that I am attracted to. Correct?"

John's heart is fluttering madly in his chest, and he can't look away from the detective at his knees. "I suppose..."

"It is also known that I have had only one notably close relationship in my life." The detective pauses, and he's never been one to wait for dramatic effect, but as usual, it comes quite naturally to him.

"Sherlock..." John's eyes are wide and locked with the detective's, wetly shining with the hope he dare not feel.

Sherlock's answering smile is small, but gentle, and a tad timid, his usual cryptic-ness absent in the tense moment. "So what, John, may we deduce from the evidence?"

John surges forwards, releasing Sherlock's hands in favor of twining his fingers in the dark locks at the back of the sleuth's neck, and using them to pull the other man into a bruising kiss. It does not take long for Sherlock to overcome his momentary surprise and reciprocate, pressing against John from his place on his knees with equal enthusiasm. The kiss is chaste, but no less passionate for it, their lips sliding and pressing with months of unspoken desire. They only pull back when the need to breathe proves to be too much, and Sherlock moves his lips to tenderly kiss away the small tears that dare to leak onto John's cheeks.

He presses his forehead against the doctor's, closing his eyes, and breathing out a sigh of contentment. (One of John's favorite sighs of the night. Possibly of all time) When they open again, his eyes are blazing with an unexpected intensity and it takes John's breath away. The detective moves in for another kiss, this one slow and languid, and when he pulls away his almond eyes are sparkling as he says one exultant word.

"Finally."


End file.
